Rituals
by ReNut
Summary: "Once a year. That was the deal and the first rule to their destructive ritual."


**A/N** - _Heh. What a surprise, another debster angst from yours truly! Oh well, this one isn't as angsty, but it forced me to toy with the entire series and rewrite a lot of aspects in it. Not gonna lie, I enjoyed the challenge. Enjoy!_

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**Rituals**

Once a year. That was the deal and the first rule to their destructive ritual.

September 28th, Harry's birthday. He would have turned 60 that year, so she downed one more shot just for the sake of celebration. Dexter was no show. Happy birthday Daddy dearest! She was shitfaced.

It was right after Rud-Bria-or whatever the fuck's his name. He was crawling from within her, gnawing like a demon from beneath her skin. Her teeth clenched together, thinking of how _she_ was supposed to do the honors and kill that motherfucker, but just like his entire attire in life, he was always two steps ahead of her, and she hated him for it. Loathed would be a better choice, maybe.

Heck, she was never the one to reminisce and grin as she went down memory lane, but she fucked her brother that night, and she fucked him good.  
Thinking about it, he was never given much of a choice, but then again, everything went downright to hell right after without a proper warning, so maybe she can partially blame it on herself.

Cheater.

A low surge of laughter rises from the depths of her throat when she so gloriously tags her idiot, supposed lab geek brother as a cheater.

Long before Mrs. Titty Vampire, she was the one to claim his infidelity, crossing the line they should have never crossed.  
She liked Rita, she really did, and god knows she never intended to cause any further damage, but it just kept on happening.  
Year, after year, after year.  
He came to her like the plague, wicked and dangerous and there was no resisting.  
None of it ever stopped her from telling him he's such a guy, and that women say things they don't mean all the time, and that he's an idiot for not going after Rita.  
The goddamn irony.  
But fuck, she was being frank. She's supposed to be known for these kind of things or something.

The second time was a blur.  
She still tries to silently convince herself that back then there was no _way in hell_ that even the slightest thought of them doing _it_ again has occurred to her at any given point. But then again, she just stood there with her luggage in hand and one Special Agent Fucking Asshole waiting for her at the airport, offering a life of catching serial killing dipshits together after that major success with the astonishing resolution of the Bay Harbor Butcher's real identity. (With _real _being an understatement five long years from that very discovery.) And she didn't fucking go. She loved the man, there was no doubt. But four days later, it was Harry's anniversary, and she fucked her brother again, and she would sign her name on a billboard with glittering letters and swear, it was even better than the first time.  
They were in the midst of round three when he chuckled.  
She stopped scraping her nails down his arm, her hand shooting up to tilt up his chin.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shrugged, still thrusting into her vigorously.

"Fuck!" She shoved at his chest, "What is it?"

Her brother rarely chuckled. And in the middle of sex, on top of it all. All so serious, all the damn time.

"It's Harry. He might be watching."

She tried her best not to die out of mortification at the thought.  
And he was watching, at least in Dexter's subconscious mind, but she learned that only several years later, and they were too far gone by that point so it could be easily slipped unnoticed.  
But then rule number two strolled along. No talking about Harry, even on his anniversary.  
It rightfully gave her the creeps. He would have killed them both.

Rule number three followed a year later when he shoved himself into the elevator right before she took off, and said that "See you tonight?" that caused the mother of all guilts to creep up her throat and ruin her entire day.  
He was engaged. She had a boyfriend. Sort of. And damn Anton and his utter obliviousness.  
She pressed her lips together and smiled towards the middle aged visitor who was standing right in between them, seemingly unfazed and uninterested in his surroundings.  
Dexter was about to get into his car when she grabbed his wrist, making him turn in place to meet her gaze.  
She was ridiculously flushed when she blurted out the next rule, telling him there's no fucking need to talk about it, _ever_, that they don't acknowledge it outside the bedroom, floor, parking lot, pool, wherever the fuck they seem to do it at, and fuck, yes, she'll see him tonight.  
He didn't have the chance to retort before she pulled the most dramatic storm off on him, leaving only several specks of dust behind.  
She let him take her by the ass that night, and it hurt, badly, but then he rubbed his magical precise fingers on her swollen clit and she came shamefully quick. Twice.  
Oh, the mighty clusterfuck and how good it really felt was beyond her common sense.  
He collapsed by her side and dozed off like the inconsiderate fucker that he is.  
She left the fourth rule on a post-it note, plastered on his fridge. "No staying over. Ever." And that was the end of it.

The next year she managed to avoid Lundy again, refusing to cheat on him (even though she ironically cheated on her current boyfriend _twice_ now) but this time he just died on her, her choices taken away from her prematurely. She dumped Anton while still in the hospital like the horrible person she's become. She was broken, and then Dexter said that he was too, and she wanted to spit on his loafers. She couldn't possibly hate the fucking loafers more. It was so _him_.  
She was determined to stop the freak show of a cycle she shared with her brother that year. He was married, and she was happy (or trying to be), and it was done. But then he was still married when she was done and undone, again and again by his devilish mouth and his skilled fingers, and then one more time for the road.

Fucker.

The longer she tried to get her hands on that piece of shit Trinity, avenging the death of her lover, the more she suddenly longed for him.  
He would take these notorious glimpses at her, his lips moist because he wouldn't stop licking them.  
She would then simply cross her legs, her panties already awfully damp, and trying to suppress it only managed to make matters worse.  
Her head still buried with previous reports and a list of suspects, she would toy with the idea of breaking the rules, and just shove him into LaGeurta's office and slip his unbelievably thick cock into her mouth.  
Sucking him off was secretly her personal treasure, given the pretty sounds he would make and the things he would say to her that were nearly enough to get her off despite her self-control, without the help of a single touch. Her eyes focused on his tongue, darting out again, his lips plump, moist, pink, inviting.  
Her legs rearranged themselves into another cross.  
She was _so_ fucked.

But then Rita died. And she thought, no, she _knew_, it was the end of things. She couldn't possibly - hell, he couldn't possibly, so they wouldn't possibly.  
He showed up late to the funeral and she hesitated on whether she should hug him tight or just headbutt him on the spot. She did neither. He looked like shit. She handed him Harrison instead, and he sent her that grateful look she longed for, relishing in the feeling of him needing her as much as she needed him.  
Four months later, on the 28th, he showed up at her door with steaks and a six-pack of that expansive German beer she liked. They didn't fuck; they just ate in silence and watched a bad movie from polar sides of the couch.  
He was already out the door after hugging her goodnight when the noticed the damp patch on her shoulder.  
She contemplated on how in hell that happened when she realized he's been crying.  
She cried that night as well.

8 months later and along came the '_tenant_'.  
He was fucking her. That much was clear to them both, but she was fucking Joey Quinn, so they evened it out.  
She mentally bitch-slapped herself for thinking that they had anything to _even out_.  
It was just an annual thing. Sex, good sex, and that's about it. Like her birthday. She fucking hated her birthday.  
The blonde tenant has mysteriously left at some point, but she remained with Joey.  
He was kind, and an idiot, and a guff ball, and it was easy.  
She liked easy.  
But then the motherfucker proposed. Over pancakes. _Was_ he insane?  
She was busy having sex with her own brother for five years now, how was she supposed to get married?  
And then she was suddenly Lieutenant and she had to spend a night at Dexter's to sort her shit out.  
Four beers down and a quick glance at the man next her made her realize there was no weaseling out of it; she'd have to turn the proposal down. And she did, and it sucked ass.  
He behaved like a bitch for the next few months, showing up drunk and fucking everything with a pair of legs, trying to make her jealous. She merely tried to display pity, but it only got her angrier.  
Her Disney rollercoaster ride only seemed to start with an estimated amount of trillion bumps, the first being a doomsday batshit crazy serial killer for her to somehow put behind bars. He was an artistic son of a bitch, she could give him that.  
She rented a house that was previously a bloody crime scene of DDK. It was her way of cherishing the long goose chase.  
Being a resident in your boyfriend's place without having a real place of your own was never an acceptable option on popular belief and rightly so, yet she seemed to jump from one to another over the years, and her beach house was more than a welcome change.  
Starting therapy was a horrible idea.  
The first time Dr. Ross showed up, she chewed on her lip and shifted in her chair uncomfortably, not used to being so emotional and open about her feelings with anyone but Dexter.  
She really wasn't that annoying for a shrink, but then she suggested she might be in love with her brother, and a low grown left Debra's mouth.  
Ha. In love. _Please_.  
They were definitely fucking, not _making love_.  
And that was enough for her to create the fifth rule, the only one she was reluctant to share with her brother. No L words, no sappy bullshit, fuck, get fucked, and let go.  
Two days later she walked in on him stabbing Travis Marshall, with a certain 'I'm in love with you' on her tongue. Fuck their ritual, this was so much worse.

Serial killer or not, she had zero awareness back then, and she liked it the way it was, thank you very much.  
She was pretty grateful he blurted out that stupid 'Oh god' before she managed to draw out her gun because she might have shot him right there and then, without an added blink to her eye.  
Unsurprisingly, he swiftly lied to her.  
It took her less than 24 whole hours to find out the truth.  
She ran, threw up, and punched him.  
In retrospect, a reversal order of these three things would have been much wiser.  
She was quick to drag him by the ear to her house, telling him 'congratulations!' he's just moved in, and she's his full-time rehab facility until further notice. And further notice came way too soon in the form of Speltzer and the goddamn smoke that was now his eternal graveyard. _In the air she breathes_.  
She questioned her contentment, and Dexter said she was human, but the golf ball-size lump in her throat threatened to burst, calling him a liar with his pants on fire.  
That's what he does best, he deceives, and she's learned to appreciate it somehow, not thoroughly disgusted by him as she should have probably been.  
Flipping the calendar seemed like a rough task, flipping and flipping until she blinked and it was September once again.  
Last year was an off-year. This year, he turned out to be a serial killer, but that doesn't necessarily make it an off-year, and the realization strikes her gut with sharp pain.  
She was compromising. How shocking.  
Potato, potattoo. He was just a pack of joy, full of surprises, and she wasn't far behind, pulling multiple tricks out of her sleeve as counter attack. She thought she might as well die resisting.

She shoved at his chest with a deep scowl when he offered the key to their hotel room.  
Everything just seemed to come back and bite him back in his ass; the only difference is that she was running by his side instead of giving the chase herself with a pair of cuffs and no key.  
There were going to be a lot more Isaak Sirko's, she figured.  
It was like striking mice with a spiked bat, each one popping from an unexpected different shit hole at a time.  
She then figured they would just keep coming as long as there's food, and eliminating them might be in vain after all.  
She genuinely failed to understand how was it possible to get used to any of this.  
It felt like being a fugitive on the run. _And she was a cop.  
_  
She hated herself for showing up at that crappy hotel he picked up after heavy consideration.  
She brought her own sheets though, just in case.  
Better die together than alone and better do it clean, while you're at it.

It was the 27th and she was determined to fall asleep before midnight, praying he won't notice the date, or the hour, for that matter. He didn't, and she slept off the entire night like the dead, not stirring like she usually does. She was already awake by the time he climbed into bed with her, his unclothed erection pressed to her hip. She hated herself for rubbing her hand against him, pulling and stroking his cock until he made these pretty noises again, and she was taken captive.  
He hummed in appreciation against her bare, flat stomach when he slipped both her shorts and panties down her logs and onto the floor, diving in under the thin blanket to find her already soaked to the core.  
His saliva was added to the equation when he thrust his tongue right through her slit before sucking on her clit, his teeth grazing it just the right measure to make her fall apart and pant her lungs out.  
He said he wanted his cock deep inside her dripping pussy, uncharacteristically using other dirty expletives and she nodded, far from comprehending anything anymore. They were a walking headache as it is. _Just say yes and everything will be gone the next day._  
He fucked her hard and fast, his furious rhythm bruising her sensitive skin and she was grateful for the never-ending tan she gets for free, courtesy of the vibrant sun of Miami.  
Hell, she wouldn't want to explain the purple marks on her skin, or the apparent love bites he was willing to map her with.  
She wondered where her scarves were.  
He shoved his thumb up her ass and she writhed underneath his weight.  
She came twice before he did, and her mind was screaming at her that she's not on the pill when he eventually spilled his hot cum deep inside of her.  
He took pleasure in cleaning his surroundings, going down on her once more, slurping on both of their arousals with growing need.  
She came for the third time when he pulled at the hood of her clit with his teeth just hard enough to make her scream, and he let go only after making sure she was fully satisfied, tugging at her hardened nipples for emphasis.

She wanted to smack the obvious smirk out of his mouth for still being able to do this to her after all these years. He took pride in this. In them.  
He killed people, he stole her cases, he fucked up and forced her to get into hiding with him, and then he does _this_, and she easily forgets. She forgets that she's possibly still in love with him; she forgets that he's cheated on his deceased pregnant wife with her and that they keep on doing this on their own father's birthday.  
She _should_ have died out of mortification a very long time ago. And yet, she was still alive and kicking, and guilty as a motherfucker.

Of course, she was none the wiser when she eventually requested he kills Hannah McKay, not knowing that it was _her_ scent she smelled on him the other day at the office. And that fucking key-chain with the flower on top was the last straw.  
He was killing her, and she wanted him dead. She wanted him dead and over with and fuck, she wasn't prepared when he sprang the kids on her, keeping them under her watch while he was clearly busy fucking the blonde killer, playing cat and fucking mouse with Isaak and the entire Koshka brotherhood and avoiding LaGuerta's pressing arrows.  
She ended up with the whole quiver aimed at her, trying to protect his sorry ass from his eventual fate, rotting in death row for the rest of his life.  
He expressed his clear preferences over the electrical chair. She scoffed at him flatly. A lethal dose it is.

She told him she's in love with him, and he said it can be easily compared to the love he shares with his M&M's.  
M 'n fucking M's.  
Unbelievable.  
She nearly died but got off easy with one broken wrist, and that's the only thing that got to his attention, placing Hannah right where she belonged, behind the heavy bars of county jail.

LaGuerta's corpse was still warm in her embrace when she realized it was all futile. He'll never change, and she's not sure how far she's willing to bend for him anymore.  
Hell, she's strained.  
Drained.  
She was done.  
_They_ were done.

And so she drank, quit her job and started doing coke like back in college.  
She started working as a PI, taking shit cases nobody wanted.  
She fucked her suspects, not bothered by their dumb demeanor as long as they were geared with dicks, and maybe a joint for later as an added benefit.  
He emerged from the supermarket aisle six months later, telling her she needs to come back, that he misses her, that it's unfitting anymore and it's nearly September anyway, so she kind of has to.  
She growled back a reminder of their third rule, advising him to back the fuck off or she might pull something they're both going to regret.  
She wasn't surprised when he ended up killing Briggs. Really, she wasn't.  
She pointed a finger at him, telling him it was always the other way around.  
_It was always the other way around_.

Redemption ended up being her poison. She was forced back to that shipping container again and she was told it's always going to be Dexter. She'll always choose Dexter, and fuck, that was just plain depressing. This was never how she imagined it, even in her wild dreams.  
He killed Yates in front of her, and a strange surge of arousal pooled in the pit of her stomach, twisting and turning, and if it weren't for Vogel standing right between them both, she would have fucked him on that very bed with the corpse still underneath it. She would have put that curtain pole to better use, for sure.  
Being on his boat was strange but soothing.  
'The family that kills together.' And that's not even a half-assed joke.

He slept over that night, telling her she mustn't be alone. She took the couch.  
It wasn't long before she carefully crawled to her own bed, straddling him.  
The hell with the rules, she wanted his mouth on her nipples and between her legs, she wanted to ride him right until sunrise, and do it all over again the next day.  
He stirred awake and granted her every wish, not bothering to dismiss them of their clothing at first.  
He was always great in finding loopholes. Besides blood, it was his fucking specialty.  
He strangled her during, and she would have been frightened if it weren't an obvious turn on for him by the devious look in his eyes.  
He fucked her and pressed harder, each thrust bringing his fingers closer to one another round and around her throat.  
He was balls deep inside of her when she noticed the blood trickling down his back, the results of her own on doings. They've reached a new low, and it was vaguely equally exciting for them both.  
They started abandoning their rules that night, one by one.  
When Hannah came waltzing back into their lives, he was reluctant to dismiss her right away, and Deb felt the tiniest twinge of jealousy crawling up her stomach.  
They skipped the 28th that year, just because.  
They slept together three times a week, sometimes even more.  
One night she told him she loved him, and he answered with a kiss and an 'I love you' back.  
Three rules down.  
She could still smell the scent of sage,which came to mean _Hannah, _and he would be full of it._ S_he was far from sure who it really was she wanted to strangle with a tight rope. Her included.  
She killed him a hundred times a day in her mind, each time creating a whole different scenario in which his dead corpse ended up staring at her lifelessly, and then she would just _smile_.

Hannah moved in a week later.  
He spent his nights equally between them both, and Deb couldn't help but wonder if the other woman knew.  
She punched him square in the face when he told her about Argentina.  
When he tried to grab her wrist and make her listen, she punched him again, and he bled from his nose.  
And fuck balls, she was content. So content it was a more than disturbing. She liked hurting him back. In fact, it's all she had.

They eventually conversed about it over pillow talk, and fuck, she couldn't remember ever having any pillow talk with him. Sad truth was she never really stayed long enough to try.  
They reminisced about their first year. Of how fucked up that was when she showed up drunk and demanded his attention by stripping down to nothing and practically forcing her nudity on him.  
He said she was beautiful and she responded that he is too, but in a far dark and twisty kind of way.  
They shared a brief conversation about Saxon, and how he had to kill him before leaving so they would all be safe. Her face soured.  
The inevitable fell upon them both when she blurted that one, ugly, short word.  
"Stay."  
And they both knew she meant far more than "stay for the night", or "stay with me and don't kill Saxon."  
It was _the_ stay, and it silenced him.  
He dismissed Hannah the next day.  
She choked on her breakfast burrito when he told her, and he rushed off to fill her a cold, much-needed glass of water.  
It took her a whole of fifteen minutes to finally respond with a low "Thank fuck", and that's all it took for him to smile genuinely back at her. Finally.  
_He chose her back._

She was back to the force a couple of days later, greeted by Angel's bear hug and a smiley innuendo from Masuka. Her resigning letter to Elway consisted of nothing much but "Thank you, but not really. You fucking douche." He was going to be so pissed, and it elevated her to the extent of buying herself a new treadmill.  
She felt sorry for Harrison when he got injured the other day, but damn, the kid was doing her a favor when he practically wrecked her old treadmill, giving her a plausible excuse to shamelessly buy a newer, much expensive one.  
And she ran. She ran like the wind, and it felt _good_.

She got shot two days later, when Dexter finally decided to do the right thing and hand Saxon over to the law, claiming he's done killing. That he has her, and that's enough for now.  
She desperately wanted to believe him, but wasn't too naïve to do just that though. She promised herself to give it a second thought later that day.  
She rewarded him with another "Thank fuck" instead, hugging him tightly. He hugged her with equal intensity, placing a light kiss on her lips after making sure there was no one around to see them.  
He was off to the airport all too quickly, making sure Hannah gets on her damn plane and leaves for good.

The ambulance ride was distracting. There were lips on her forehead, and her hand was clutched tightly into someone else's.  
She smiled back at Quinn. He was never really over her, and it pinched her heart a bit.  
If she was being completely honest, other than Dexter, he's the only one she was willing to share the horrid ride with.  
She awoke right when the doors to her hospital room burst open and Dex came in running, his whole body trembling.  
There was a deep, worried frown plastered on his face, and damn, it was not flattering.  
She reached out her hand to sooth his facial expression, her fingertips grazing that ginger stubble of his she's taught herself to like so much.  
He leaned into her touch.  
Elway was apparently still oh so very close to Hannah, giving chase, deadly storm or not. She told Dexter to get the fuck out of there and save the woman, or she might take them both down with her as she goes.  
He refused sternly, but she was holding her ground, urging him on.

"The next word I wanna hear you say is goodbye. Say it already or I'll crawl out of this fucking bed and kick your ass."  
She meant it. She would.  
She needed him to shut the fuck up for once, and stop telling her it's only for now and he'll be back.  
He finally succumbed with an unconvinced "Goodbye", and it was his last.  
He got killed by a chain traffic accident caused by the storm on his way back from the airport.

She didn't cry. Not a single tear.

She thought he could have died better. Probably should have picked one out of her hundred ways before he went off and fucked everything up, dying like a regular person. How could he?

She eventually cried a week later, when she was told she probably won't make it, but they were tears of sheer joy.  
She was going to kick his ass now, just like she promised. She seriously decided that kicking ass still counts, even on another dimension entirely.  
She was_ still _his sister. They were still entitled to bicker and yell their throats off, no matter what it is they eventually came to be.  
Son of a bitch deserved it for putting her through the ridiculous riff of torment that was her life. She loved him nonetheless.  
She passed away on September 29th, cussing all the way to her tomb for not dying a day earlier with a grand, epic exit.

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**A/N** - _Reviews are greatly appreciatied!_


End file.
